


One Man, One Woman

by spikesgirl58



Series: ABBA/Foothills [91]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something very wrong with Matt and Rocky.  Illya sends Napoleon off to figure out why.  It's not what either of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Man, One Woman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tafizgurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tafizgurl/gifts).



Illya Kuryakin wiped his hands on the towel hanging from his apron and scowled.  _What in the name of Escoffier is going on,_ he thought.

“Matt?”  He didn’t yell; he didn’t have the heart to.  Matt had been so quiet as of late and always seemed on the border of tears the last three days.

“ _Si?_

“What are the five mother sauces?”

“ _Béchamel l, Velouté, Espagnole, Hollandaise,_ and _Tomate,”_ Matt answered without excitement.

“And which one do we make when attempting a Provençale sauce?”  Illya kept his voice even.   The Provençale is a fragrant tomato sauce made with sautéed onions, garlic, capers, olives and Herbes de Provence to be served with meat, poultry, and fish.

“The _Tomate.”_

“Then why did you make it with a _Velouté_ base?”  Illya pushed the container of sauce towards him.  It wasn’t like Matt to be so distracted while cooking.  In fact, it was during cooking when Matt was the most focused.

Matt stared at Illya, then at the container and then back at Illya. Twin tears trickled down Matt’s cheeks.  Sniffling, Matt undid his apron and let it fall to the floor.  Wordless, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

“What the hell?”  Winston was sous chef for the evening.  “Where’s Matt going?”

“I have no idea.”  Part of Illya wanted to follow Matt and hold him quietly until Matt told him what was wrong.  Another part, the sane part, knew he had a dining room full of patrons who wanted their meal.  “Winston, do you know how to make a classic _Provençale_ sauce?”

“Yes, Chef.”

Illya held the container out to him.  “Then throw this shit out and make me some.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Henry looked over at Rand and then motioned to Illya. 

“No, you have to come here.”  He turned back to the stove.

Henry wiped his hands on a towel and tossed it onto the work table.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but I got a call from Mike yesterday.”

Illya added some stock to a pan to deglaze it.  “Mike?”

“Mike’s Antique.  He said that Rocky was in there trying to sell his mother’s silver.  He said he needed the money.  Mike refused and told him to think about it.”

“Rocky loves his mom’s silver.  Why would he need money?”

“I don’t know, but in view of everything else, I thought you needed to know.”

 “And someone find Napoleon for me.”  If he couldn’t talk to Matt, perhaps Napoleon could.  The man had always possessed the ability to charm water from a rock. 

Rand took off his apron and used it to grab a hotel serving pan full of freshly baked puff pastry filled with caramelized Maui onions and local goat cheese from the oven.  “I will.  I need a break.  I’ll take these over to _Vinea._ ”

“Thanks! Go!  Get them there hot!”  Illya turned back to his pans.  He didn’t want to ruin the veal he was searing by overcooking it.

                                                                                ****

Napoleon stretched his back and winced.  It had been a busy day and evening at _Vinea._   They were staying open late to handle the Christmas traffic, and wine seemed to be a popular choice for many this year.  He was already running low on some of his more popular labels and made a mental note to call those wineries tomorrow.

“Hey, Napoleon!”  Rand came through the back door with a tray in his hand.  Automatically Napoleon opened the door of the holding oven for Rand to slide the tray in.

“Thanks!  We were running low.”

Rand shook his hand to cool them and looked around.  “How goes the voyage, Admiral?”  They were both sailing men.

“Not bad at all.  The winds have been fair and steady.  You, Captain?”

“Oh, a few keel haulings, some mopping of the deck, and Matt just walked the plank.”

“What?”

“He screwed up one of Chef’s sauces and when Chef asked him about it, Matt left. “

“He what?”

“He walked out.  Took his apron off and split.”  Rand walked to the back door and stood in the chilled night air to light a cigarette. 

“On a Saturday night?”

“Chef was wondering if you’d have time to find out what’s going on.”

“I’ll make time.”

Napoleon walked into Taste and looked around.  Roxanne looked up, stress pinching the corners of her eyes.  She relaxed, seeing Napoleon there.  “Oh, thank God, I thought it was a customer.”

“Busy night?”

“You have no idea.  People get so crazy this time of year.”

“What section is Rocky working?”

“He’s in the back with three big parties.”

Napoleon kissed her cheek.  “Thank you, my sweet.”

Napoleon moved through the dining room, nodding and waving to various people he knew or who had been recent customers at Vinea.

Rocky was standing in a small alcove, talking on the phone.

“I’m telling you, it’s in great shape.  It runs like a champ. Never mind why I’m selling it.  I just am.”

Napoleon reached over and disconnected the call.

“Hey!”  Rocky spun and then hesitated.

“We need to talk, Mister I need money fast.” 

“I’m really busy.”  Rocky took a step back towards the dining room, but another waiter pushed past him.

“You’re on break until we get to the bottom of this.  It can take five minutes or an hour.  It’s really up to you.”

“I just…”

“If you need money, Rocky, you’ve only got to come to me or Illya.  Surely you know that.”

Something in the man’s eyes flared.  “I can take care of my own.”

“What, Rocky?  What is going on?  If you don’t want our help, that’s fine, but you have to tell me.”

There was a long pause and Rocky finally muttered, “Mattie’s homesick.  I was trying to scrape enough money together to get him a ticket to Italy.  They’re really expensive, even the cheap seats…”

“I see.”  Napoleon took a deep breath.  “All right, you get back on the floor.  I’m going to go talk to Matt.”

“You can’t tell him.  He’d be so embarrassed.”

“Just leave it to me.”

 

                                                                                ****

Napoleon knocked on the front door and waited.  The house that Matt and Rocky shared was not far from the restaurant, and Napoleon had made the walk in double time.  He looked around at the surrounding houses, resplendent in their Christmas finery.  It struck Napoleon as odd that Matt’s and Rocky’s house wasn’t decorated.  If anyone was Napoleon’s equal when it came Christmas, it was Matt.

There was no answer and, after a minute, Napoleon knocked again.  Then he tried the front door.  It was unlocked and he opened it to peer around the darkened living room.

“Matt?”

There was movement on the couch and Napoleon snapped on a light.  You couldn’t say he knew this house as well as his own but damn close.  The redhead was sitting on the sofa, holding something.  When Matt did nothing more than look at him, Napoleon closed the door and took off his coat.  Tossing it on the back of a chair, he walked to Matt’s side and sat down.

Matt was holding a framed photograph, yellowed with age.  Napoleon looked at it, guessing it to be Matt’s family.

“You were a cute kid, Matt.  Is that your mother?”  Suddenly there was an explosion of words, mixed with sobs, from Matt, and Napoleon hesitated for just a moment before gathering the man into his arms and patting his back.  “It’s okay, Matt, but you have to slow down.  I don’t speak Italian as well as Illya.”

Matt pulled away and took a deep breath.  “Chef, he is angry with me?”

“Chef is worried sick about you, not angry.  What’s going on?”

“I am… _nostalgico_.”

It took Napoleon a moment to translate.  “You’re home sick?”

 _“Si._   It is _stupido_ , no, for a man of my years to be homesick?”

“It’s not _stupido_.  I get homesick every Christmas… especially when the bills start coming in.  When I was growing up, it was all about Christmas and Santa and parties and food.  My parents struggled at the best of times, although it got easier as time went on.  Still, they always made a merry Christmas for my sister and me.”  Napoleon offered Matt his handkerchief.  “However, the funny part was that after I lost Illya, I went back home for Christmas and that was when I discovered it wasn’t the place, but the people that make Christmas.  I had my folks, my sister, my friends, but not the one person I needed to make me whole.”

“I know, _Cara.”_   Matt sighed unhappily. 

“Are your parents still alive?”

“They married very young, when _Madre_ was _incinta_ with me.”  Matt looked back at the photo.  I was just four when my brother came along and then my sisters.”

“Go visit them.  Illya would give you the time off.”

“That is the problem, _Cara_.  My home is here.  I don’t want to be without my Rocky… or my friends.”  Matt set the photo on the side table and sighed again.  “What is the saying, caught between a rock and a hard spot?”

“Indeed you are, my friend.”

“Is Chef very angry with me?”

“No, he’s not.  He wants you happy, Matt.”

Matt nodded. “ _Io, anche_.”

                                                                                ****

Christmas Eve at Taste was always a time reserved for family and friends of the restaurant.  Everyone chipped in and contributed a dish, usually one from their childhood, to the mix.  There was laughter and music and much frivolity as the staff anticipated a week off to rest before New Year’s Eve.

Matt was usually the life of the party, but this year, he was quiet, sitting at a table with Rocky and talking, occasionally looking away into the night and sighing.

“Illya?”  Napoleon walked up to the table where Illya had been dishing up borscht.  The blond looked up and grinned.

“I love your antlers, Napoleon.”  There was a pair of felt antlers on Napoleon’s head and he laughed.

“I forgot about those.”  But he didn’t take them off.  “I think our young friend is about ready for his gift.”

“I would agree.  If we wait much longer, he’ll disappear.”  Illya set the ladle on a plate and undid his apron.

Napoleon slipped off into the kitchen as Illya walked out onto the center of the impromptu dance floor and held up a hand.  The music softened and then went off.

“May I have your attention, please?”  Illya paused to make sure everyone was paying full attention to him.  “Recently, we’ve noticed that a member of our family has been suffering from a bit of Christmas blues.”  Everyone looked at Matt, who managed a wan smile.  “Matt, will you join me up here?”

Matt shook his head, only to have Rocky pull him to his feet and drag him to the dance floor.

“Please, _Cara,_ no,” Matt muttered in a half-hearted attempt to escape.  His face began to redden until it was nearly the same color as his hair.

Rocky handed Matt off to Illya, who immediately wrapped an arm around his partner.  “No escaping, Matthew.  Stand still and listen to what I am going to say.”

“Then I can go?”

“If you still want to.”

“Then talk.  Say what you will.”

“Matt, there are many people here who love you, some of us a bit more than others.  Yet, you are torn between wanting to be here and wanting to be home.  Since it would be impossible to bring Italy here, we did the next best thing.”

Napoleon guided the man and woman from the kitchen and leaned close to the woman to murmur something. 

“Matthew?”

Matt spun at the sound of his mother’s voice.  He began to grope for his breath and look at Illya with a stunned expression. 

“It was Napoleon’s idea,” Illya whispered.  “Go to your parents, _Amante_.”  He gave Matt a shove towards them and began to applaud, immediately joined by everyone else in the room.

                                                                                ****

“That was a very loving thing you did tonight, Napoleon.”  Illya was staring at the ceiling, trying to decide whether the happy buzz he was experiencing was from the alcohol or an incredible bout of love making.

“Hmm, last night, technically, since it’s after one.”  Napoleon kissed Illya’s temple.  “This is one of the joys of having money.  What good is it if you can’t make the people closest to you happy?”

“You never used money to make me happy.”  Illya looked at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips.  He wiggled his feet, but only Moutard noticed and he went back to sleep.

“I said closest, not the one I love.  I would never sully my love for you with money.”  Napoleon grinned.  “That’s what the sex is for.”

“ _Excellemente, primo,_ good.”  Illya settled against Napoleon.  “I’ll remember come morning.”  Then he kissed Napoleon and reached over him to turn out the light.

“You can make book on that.”  And they all settled down for a long winter nap.


End file.
